


Tenses of Being

by anika



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aging, Blind Soldier: 76, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, Immortal Mercy, Immortality, M/M, Time Passage, Time Skips, Tragedy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, slight PTSD, slight suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anika/pseuds/anika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>how briefly the moment of "is" before the endless "was" -welcome to night vale</em><br/>A return, a reconciliation, but as years and years pass they realize time doesn't freeze and good things can only last for so long.</p><p>So enjoy them while they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. am

**Author's Note:**

> so. this has been in the works for what i'd say is quite a few months (since may-june-ish?), because i am incredibly slow. it was also written as a oneshot, but got so long i had to split it up into chapters to make it easier to read; luckily, i already had it written in sections, so it isn't too weirdly split up. just a bit uneven in chapter length.
> 
> there's a huge culmination of a bunch of headcanons i saw floating around mixed with my own, and there were so many more i wanted to include lol. i have a lot of conflicting ones too, so it was tough to decide which ones to use 
> 
> i'd like to thank my betas from the r76 + OWBB discords! they were super helpful.
> 
> anyways, have fun.

_how briefly the moment of_

_“is”_

_before the endless_

_“was.”_

_-welcome to night vale_

i.

Withered white walls, black smoke making its way through the air currents, wisps wandering away from the source and dissipating until they no longer stand out from the surroundings. He sits on the old metal bed, staring at everything, nothing, into the distance as he drags labored breaths in before exhaling more smoke.

No. Not smoke. Something different. Something that is part of him, but also not. But smoke is the best way to describe it; the details of his condition don’t matter. Not now. Never have.

He still tries to hide it with a hood and a turn away from anyone who may be looking, but at least he left the “ridiculous getup” (as _someone_ had so lovingly called it) behind. Wasn’t him anymore. People change constantly, never the same, the person they were before ceasing to exist upon new experiences. It seems all the more applicable to him; everyone he had been in the past didn’t seem like him anymore, like a completely different person, a life split up into separate ones yet all interconnected somehow. Leaving the outfit behind, a symbolic element to represent another change, another shift, another stage beginning. No longer the personification of death, no longer a wandering ghost, no longer Reaper.

Now he is Gabriel Reyes again. But, as always, significantly different than the Gabriel Reyes before. No one is the same twice.

He lets himself find amusement in the concept of personifying death. Remember the things from stories and folklore, the monsters he had based his persona on. ( _Though were they only considered monsters because they represented an undesirable part of humanity? Then again, aren’t all monsters like that? He allows himself a slight grin. Makes it even more fitting for him in his monstrous, inhuman state. The smoke still twirls in the air._ ) Grim reapers, la lechuza, all beings that bring or foreshadow death, none of which can truly die.

Sounds familiar.

How many of these phases, these segments of life will he go through? Infinitely many, he assumes. So he focuses on the current one.

Gabriel Reyes, member of Overwatch yet again. Sort of.

Showing up had, of course, been an occasion. Agents pulling guns on him, muttering things into radios, him just putting his hands up and sighing and waiting for it to be over. He knew damn well they couldn’t do shit to him, and they knew damn well that he could escape whenever. Reduce himself to smoke again and ghost away down halls, through cracks and vents to freedom. ( _Really, he could do that now, confined in this room, but he hasn’t. He hears the whispers wondering why._ ) And, naturally, everyone was suspicious when he let them lock him away. They assumed he was trying to pull _something_ , sabotage from the inside, trick them and kill them in their sleep, not like it would be new to him, not like it hasn’t happened before.

Honestly, the assumption was an insult. Just showing up like this with a plan like that would be much too obvious. He had been leader of Blackwatch for a goddamn reason.

(The true insult, however, lied in their reasoning.)

Yet he understands. Especially since he said next to nothing about why he was here, what he was doing. It wasn’t until a certain _someone_ showed up and ordered everyone around that they shut up and left them alone. Still skeptical, but listened.

Yeah. Made sense they’d listen to 76 when it came to _him_.

Then there were the questions. Not interrogations, not quite. Just questions. He stayed silent, staring at the ground as someone shot their inquiries at him, suppressing fire, missing. He drowned them out, or gave one word answers, or just laughed, or stared them down until they left.

It never lasted long. They all knew 76 would show up again. And he did, and Reyes talked.

“Been a while, _sunshine_.” The old pet name dripped off Reyes’s tongue and he could taste the acid and bitterness. It was volatile, vaporizing into the air around them and causing 76 to wince and look away, just a little, just enough for Reyes to notice. A smirk tugged at the corner of Reyes’s mouth as he leaned back, feet up on the table, chair on its back legs.

The conversation itself was nothing of note, nothing Reyes remembers in detail. He remembers being asked why he was here, why he would suddenly side with his enemy, remembers reminding 76 that he isn’t loyal to Talon and never has been. Just a hired gun.

The lack of allegiance brought up just as many issues. Reyes tuned 76’s— _Morrison’s_ _—_ droning out before interrupting.

“Don’t see why it matters now.”

“Of course it matters—”

“Been over all this shit already.” He leaned forward, the front legs of the metal chair touching the concrete floor with a tap that reverberated around the room, shattering the silence that came between sentences.

“We’re after the same thing, unfortunately,” Reyes said, slow, gravelly voice exposing the inescapable death and decay. He never noticed until someone else did.

“Which is?”

He squinted. “What brought us down.”

Morrison stiffened, and while Reyes couldn’t see behind that stupid visor, he could picture the man’s eyes narrowing. Glancing down and to the side, lips parted, inner lip slightly bitten and then a recovery before reply.

“We both know who did that. And you’re just finishing their job.”

Reyes chuckled. “I was known for that, wasn’t I?” he joked. “But you misunderstand my motives.”

“You’ve killed a number of our past agents,” Morrison interjected, “I don’t see any misunderstanding.”

“And do you know who those agents were?”

Morrison thought for a moment. “Not personally—”

“Exactly.” One of the reasons he had been a shit leader, maybe. But he didn’t bring that up. “They were some of the ones that started everything that went down.” _That started what took everything from us._

A silence fell over the room as Morrison chewed on the information, whether to trust him or not, what to think. “You’ve tried to kill our current agents, too. Good people that had nothing to do with us back then.”

Reyes shrugged. “Gets away from me sometimes. And Talon wanted ‘em dead for one reason or another.” Calm exterior. Internally reeling. Never noticed, never thought about it, never knew who exactly he was hurting or why. _Terrifying._

Old Gabriel Reyes did not exist anymore. But neither did Reaper. _Does that make it okay?_

“So you still followed their orders.” It was not a question.

“I never _did_ kill any of yours, now, did I?” He exhaled, a mix of a groan and a sigh, smoke escaping his lips. “Irrelevant. Point is, you want to know and expose who brought us down. But you’re slow, which is why I got to them before you even _knew_ about ‘em.”

Morrison...chuckled? Not a friendly one. “Haven’t changed your strategy.” Flashbacks came to both of them, of the torture Blackwatch conducted, the assassinations, the kidnappings, the stress over reports and the pulling out of blond hair from frustration and anger and _fear_.

“So,” Morrison said, “you’re sayin’ we work together?”

Reyes gave another smug grin, leaning back again. “Just like old times.”

It hung in the air like the lightbulb above the table, swinging carelessly but tethered to their thoughts. Reyes stared, unsure where Morrison’s gaze was but assuming he was doing just the same.

Finally, Morrison sighed and turned towards the door.

“We’ll see.”

Then Reyes was taken to the room he currently resides in, white and dingy, evidence of wear and age and lack of maintenance all around the base. A mirror of its organization.

No one else enters the room, no one else talks to him, no one else asks questions, and it works since Reyes doesn’t need much. Not the usual human necessities. Can barely even consider himself human anymore. Morrison is the only one who still comes, just shows up on his own time, though his appearances are eventually to be expected. Reyes lets him.

It was awkward at first, more questions, more cutting remarks and skirting around the issues. But, slowly, Morrison visited for his own reasons, rather than to ask questions. To talk, or to sit in silence, to level out the uneven ground they stand on.

The tension, still, only lingered. A tension neither of them could name, neither could put their finger on, neither could describe but only _feel_ in the tips of their fingers and the seats of their stomachs.

It’s late, though Reyes can only tell from the digital clock on the table. Blue glow. No windows. Not that he needs them.

“So,” Morrison says, that hint of playfulness making its way back into his voice, “should I be flattered you’d come back here for me?”

Reyes scoffs. “Tell yourself what you want, old man. Just made more sense.”

It’s a nice feeling, these interactions. The banter, the teasing, the nostalgia that seeps into their words, stirring up memories neither wanted to acknowledge, the muddiness in the water.

“You know,” Morrison says, “everyone’s gettin’ on my ass about letting you stay here.”

“Understandably.” He doesn’t make eye contact, just leans against the wall, knees up, staring at nothing like he usually does.

More silence. Reyes weighs whether or not he should say what’s on his mind, to give that information up, or to just stay quiet, keep to himself, change nothing.

He speaks. “Don’t want to hurt your people, not now.”

“Never seemed like that in battle.”

“Talon—”

“I know what you said. Don’t give me the same old ‘following orders’ bullshit.” Cold, then stings from the frostbite.

Reyes sighs, closer to a cough than anything, and turns his head towards Morrison. Just slightly, just enough to draw attention to his face, in worse shape than it had been when he arrived; it took a lot of concentration to keep it together, to look comfortably human, but even then, he could only stay that way for so long. Dark skin mottled in places, dead, dying and regenerating right before his eyes, veins prominent in places and dried up in others, a layer of grey over everything. Black mist seeping from small cuts and cracks, from his mouth with every exhale, and at this point, his eyes, too. The whites of them turning grey with the rest of the skin, brown irises with red undertones, staring at Morrison’s visor with a soft intensity and a soft glow between them that reflected each other’s and heightened both.

“The mental grasp slips just as much as the physical,” he says, struggling to find the words to describe it. He looks down and to the side, but doesn’t turn away completely. “Spend enough time like this and shit changes. I...get away from myself.”

The memories of battles push themselves into the front of his mind, the draw to death to sustain himself. The need for the energy from others’ lives to keep him stable was overpowering, controlling his every move, no desire to fight it. A necessary dip in self-control before it could be fully regained.

Only so long he can go.

And he would reach that threshold eventually; he can’t keep himself locked up here forever. But that’s an issue for another time, he thinks to himself. So he hopes.

Morrison is quiet, and it’s impossible to read his emotions, his thoughts, with that mask hiding his face. His posture stays the same, that of a hardened soldier, always on guard. Always maintained around Reyes.

“I see,” is all he says, and Reyes would have been irritated by the lack of response if he hadn’t expected it. He sees Morrison stand to leave, facing away from him but still on guard, walking towards the door.

So Reyes makes a stupid decision.

“Jack?” he says, stopping his old friend.

Morrison turns his head. “What?”

Reyes gives him a small smile, eyes narrowed and turning it into a smirk. “Thanks, asshole.”

_Death is something inevitable, unavoidable. And when it shows up at your doorstep, sometimes you just have to let it in._

 


	2. been

ii.

Reaper’s— _Reyes’s_ _—_ arrival had been spontaneous, but there was no mystery as to _why_. It started with a battle, a little while back.

King’s Row. An attempt to take it back from Talon, their hands having been on the area since the assassination. Night. Ambush. Fatal underestimates of what they were up against. And Soldier: 76’s plan to flank them. Alone.

He hadn’t realized how outnumbered they were until it was too late; already far from the group, far from any assistance when he heard the distress calls over the comm. Distant sound of bullets going back and forth, the gasps of those hit, those breathing their final breaths, their last sights those of a chaotic battlefield. No voices he recognized among those, at least. Good. That’s good.

Okay. He had to head back, had to get there and help them survive the retreat. Turn. Run. Back the way he came, sprinting, panting as he pushed himself as far as he could. Visor scanning the surroundings, looking for any enemies in the way, not going to get caught not going to be taken by surprise not going to let any of his teammates die—

Shatter. Loud, all around him. Vision cut out. The sound of something clattering across the cobblestone ground. No time to react before he felt the heat spreading in his torso, the sharp pain that followed upon realization.

He couldn’t let himself stop. He kept running, blindly, ears out for any other threats amongst the chaos, compensation for lost sense.

Another shot. A pain in his leg. He stumbled, pushed himself back up, ignored the searing burn that spread throughout his thigh that accompanied the one in his side.

Not the right direction. Not anymore. Safety. Had to find something, wait it out. Not like anyone would come back for him, or at least he hoped not. He hoped they prioritized themselves, their lives. That would be the best case scenario.

He’d been through enough. As long as they got out okay.

Some of the shouts and shots died down, whether it was from a retreat or distance or just his own senses fading. He slumped against a corner, feeling his way down to the ground, deep breaths, taking note of his injuries.

Sniper shot through the right thigh, though thankfully avoided any arteries. Another through his left side. Felt similar, must have been the same gun. May have been that _monster_ they made of Amélie—

No time to dwell. Visor gone, and even if he could have located it he knew it was broken. So he took off a glove, took deep breaths. He was still outside, in some sort of alley or niche, hands running along the smooth cobblestones that covered the ground, the rough cement between them holding them in place, the worn brick walls forming the corner he took some semblance of shelter in. The corners of the bricks scratched at his exposed, calloused hand, the chips in them from the years, decades, centuries of use catching on his skin. He hadn’t gone far around a corner, and the way the sound and the wind spread through the area indicated that he was not very far into anything. Okay. Just a small niche, probably behind a building, maybe off of an alley. More wind. No, not off of an alley. Exposed to some sort of open area, maybe a small garden or a courtyard.

Not hidden at all. He wouldn’t last long here.

The few medical kits he had on hand would be of little use; he could feel around and manage despite not being able to see what he was doing, but he had been low on supplies from the start, from lending them out to teammates he expected would need them more. And even if he kept himself from bleeding out, they would find him.

Immediately ruled out calling anyone through the comm. It had been part of the visor, so it was long gone. For the best, probably. Or the worst. Either they deemed him dead and didn’t come after him, or they wasted more time and threw themselves into danger to look for him. Not knowing where he was, not being able to communicate, not even _knowing_ if he was alive would only drag that out, make it riskier—

He hoped for the former case.

Deep breaths. It was peaceful, in a way. He still heard the sound of the fight in the distance, but at this rate, it was more a familiar ambience, white noise.

Wait. Footsteps. Closer. He straightened his back, wincing and groaning as the movement upset the injury on his side, but he still tried his damndest to brace himself for what was to come.

“I was wondering where you went,” a voice said. Familiar.

“Reaper,” 76 snarled, facing his general direction. “You here to finish your sniper’s job?”

But something in Reaper’s voice was different. Some of the edge gone. 76 tried to kill the memories it brought back, bury them with the remains of the kids they used to be. Died with the HQ, nothing but ash and rubble and hopeless regret.

No use bringing any of that back.

“Certainly could have done better,” Reaper drawled, “but there was a lot on her plate.”

76 heard him move one of his (frankly, ridiculous) guns, probably to aim it at him. He allowed himself a laugh. “Not gonna take advantage of a vulnerable old man, are you?”

No response. He heard a hesitation in Reaper’s breathing, a temporary hold, perhaps a slight step back. And though he could no longer see, 76’s eyes narrowed out of curiosity, brows furrowed.

Maybe he was ready to pull the trigger. 76 relaxed. End of the line, finally.

“...Maybe not.”

The response drew 76’s attention back. He felt his eyes open (they had been closed?) and sat up again. The pain was irrelevant.

“Then why are you here?”

“No fun killing you when you’re like this, right?”

“Right,” 76 said, not in agreement but as a statement of realization. “You care too much about the process, don’t you?”

“You know me so well,” Reaper spat.

“That mindset’s what led to a lot of the shit we had to deal with.”

“But we’re both past that, aren’t we?” Footsteps, again. He was pacing. “And that wasn’t _us_.” He stopped walking.

“I was just thinking that. And you know...” 76 reached for his rifle, still somewhere at his side. Fingers inching across the cobblestone, feeling around, careful as to not be obvious yet working quickly. There it was. Cold metal on cold rock. Cold hand around it.

“...you’re leaving yourself open.”

“Can’t kill me anyway,” Reaper replied.

Scoff, almost a smile. “Yeah, bit of an unfair advantage you got there.” Slightest of grim laughs. There was another silence, the distant sounds of battle drowned out by their own thoughts, the atmosphere they created. “Just gonna stand here and talk shit about me? You could do that any time.”

“ _Quiet_.” No reason but irritation.

“Guess watching me bleed out is prime entertainment, then.”

He heard a shift, another hesitation, before “I said I need you alive, idiot. Make sure no one else comes along to kill you.”

That’s right. Huh.

76 finally had a moment to process the information. “So you mean...make sure I don’t die just so you can kill me later?”

“Yes.”

76 laughed again, the movements arousing more of the ache in his side. “Sounds just like you, G—”

He stopped himself, but it was too late. Reaper was still. One breath. No knowing how many seconds passed. Then he spun around, facing away. His coat blew cold air into 76’s face, blowing against the scar tissue that covered the lower half.

And there were more footsteps. Faster, lighter, growing louder, then stopping. A gasp. A gun pulled out.

“What are you—” another familiar voice said. Panicked.

“Easy, doc,” Reaper muttered, but his words were followed by pistol blasts and the sound of smoke and dust dissipating into the air.

So they had maybe four minutes.

Mercy ran over to 76’s side. “What happened? Why was he here?”

“He didn’t do this,” 76 assured her, “it’s a long story.” Which, of course, meant _“it’s a shorter story but it’s weird and even I don’t get it so we’ll go into that later.”_

Instead, he added, “why’d you come back?”

“Of _course_ I came back.” She helped him up, and he groaned in pain, clutching his side and putting his weight on his uninjured leg.

“You need to worry about yourselves, not some old soldier that disappeared out on the field.”

“Absolutely not,” Mercy snapped, “you’re just as important as the rest.”

He nearly argued. First instinct was to disagree, to raise his voice maybe, to insist that _everyone needs to stop making stupid decisions you’re just trying to get yourselves killed_ _—_

But he heard it in her voice. Couldn’t see her face, but heard her expression just as well. Hidden beneath the anger, the authoritative tone. In the way she emphasized the _“just”_ and the slow speed of the last few words. How she had to lower her voice after the initial snap. Care. Worry. _Sadness._

So he stopped himself.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said instead, “just get me out of here.”

The sound of a smile. “Exactly.”

* * *

And Reaper watched from the shadows, telling himself it was only one impulsive decision, one stupid idea he went with, wouldn’t let ghosts of the past influence the actions of today.

And he believed it. Until the next time.

Ilios. Capturing another base for Talon and, of course, dealing with Overwatch—remnant resistance. The King’s Row incident had not faded from memory, coming back up to the surface every time Reaper caught a glimpse of the man from across the field, and he cursed it every time. A victory in battle, an unconventional cost.

This time, they were the ones losing. He listened to what one of the superiors said; get another angle on them, sneak into where they were condensed, break out from the inside. Then he made it to one building, with only one person inside.

It was a clear shot. One more shadow step in, one pull of the trigger, and the nuisance that was Soldier: 76 would be dead. Reaper’s team would gain a lead. He would be rewarded. Easy. And the old dog didn’t let his guard down like this too often.

A perfect opportunity.

But he hesitated.

Scolded himself. _Idiot, it’s one shot, one guy, you don’t know each other anymore_ _—_

Then he noticed the grenade. Only moments before 76 did, but those moments made all the difference. Too late. Couldn’t get out of the way in time. The telltale beeping sped up, flickering blue light going faster, about to go off, brief fractions of seconds felt like minutes and hours yet also no time at all—

And when it went off, Reaper felt himself scatter, reduced to more ash and smoke. He reformed a few meters away, ignoring the searing pain that was to be expected with being ripped apart and watching the man on the ground cough and stand up.

“Why—”

“You’re off your game today,” Reaper said, trying his best to keep his voice low and intimidating as always. “I just...need you alive. Again. For now.” God dammit. The stuttering didn’t fit the image.

Silence. He should leave. He should really, really leave. But he didn’t, and unfortunately, it gave Jack the chance to speak.

Nothing but a laugh. A laugh that was too familiar, too comforting. A name coming back to him, and the image that comes with it. _Sunshine._

Reaper was gone before 76 could call him out on the bullshit. Instead, the soldier stood, outwardly amused but inwardly shocked, mind reeling over what had happened before returning to the battle.

Talon lost that day. It was also Reaper’s last day working for them; they weren’t too happy about their hired gun turning on them.

Fine. He was going to quit, anyway.

So he showed up at the Overwatch base a few months later, pride in his throat and heart in his hands.


	3. is

iii.

As the days go on, Morrison’s visits to the room grow more and more frequent. Less formal. Sometimes, the room is filled with raised voices before Morrison storms out. Sometimes, there are strained explanations, mending misconceptions and misrepresentations until they can dig up the truth from the past’s premature grave. And sometimes, only a few words are spoken, before sitting in a comfortable (if only a little strained) silence. Those times, Morrison perches on the edge of the bed Reyes sits on, leaning against the wall behind Reyes’s back or leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, open but on guard.

And the memories return. A different story every day or so, a “remember this” or “didn’t that happen.” They let them come, let the barriers break down piece by piece, the people they used to be slowly making their way back through words and gestures and, god forbid,  _ feelings _ .

It’s nice, and they both hate to admit it.

“Hey,” Morrison says one day, voice soft and close to Reyes’s ear. He’s leaning against the wall again, Reyes facing away, back almost touching Morrison’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” Reyes mumbles in reply.

“You remember all those shitty band shirts you had?”

Reyes straightens. “Shut up.”

Morrison chuckles. “Hana was listening to one the other day, I think. Jogged my memory.”

Reyes sighs. “Asshole.” But he leans back, slowly, cautiously resting his back on Morrison’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. “They’re good bands.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

The physical contact is minimal, but Reyes feels like Morrison’s arm is going to burn a hole in his back, through the t-shirt that feels all too thin and past the partially-decayed skin stretched over his body; he is all too aware of every spot he’s touching, the differences in pressure, the rise and fall of his shoulders with his heavy breaths. And, suddenly, he’s all too conscious of his own body, too, or at least what is left of it. He lets himself lean more into Morrison, relaxing, and the man welcomes it, leaning into him in turn.

The tension in the air fucking  _ skyrockets _ .

“So,” Morrison starts, “you even gonna be of any use to us?” There is no malice in his voice, only the hint of a smile, though Reyes still can’t see behind that godforsaken mask.

“Sure didn’t come here to be locked in a room all day.”

“So is that a yes?”

“Find a use for me. I’m sure there’s one somewhere.”

Morrison thinks for a moment. “Well, I know the bathrooms need more maintenance — ”

“Other than that,” Reyes snaps, face scrunching up. It elicits a laugh from Morrison, though, and he tries not to dwell on how  _ nice _ it sounds. Raspy, betraying his age, and on the quieter side, yet still filled with genuine amusement and even happiness. A smile, a genuine one, tugs at Reyes’s mouth.

“Take the mask off,” he says, before he even knows he was thinking it.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Morrison chuckles. “You really wanna see that?”

“You’ve seen what’s under mine. Know you can’t compete?”

There’s a scoff, a slight sound of amusement, before he sighs. Quiet. Speaks. Tone softer. “You know I still can’t see without it.”

“Tough luck. I want a good look at you now.”

The only sound in the room is that of their breathing, Morrison’s muffled behind the mask and Reyes’s gritty and slow as always. Reyes feels the man behind him shift and looks up. No more red glow of the visor; his gaze falls on blue eyes, hazy from years of no use, staring off at nothing, a cloudy sky still reflecting the light just barely. Reyes’s breath hitches at the sight. He hadn’t seen it since that night in the barely-lit alley, the memories veiled by the surreality and anxiety of it all. This time, Morrison’s face is lit up under the off-white room’s buzzing fluorescent lights, casting shadows and bringing out every wrinkle, every scar. The bags and dark circles under his unseeing eyes, hints of grey stubble, and scarred, chapped lips pulled up into the all-too-familiar smile. Kind-hearted, genuine. Not a look that fits a hardened soldier.

Reyes tries to ignore the weird pang he feels in his heart, the warmth that spreads through his chest, pushing away the deathly chill that usually takes up residence. He’s nearly knocked back from the sudden shift, the unfamiliarity, the anxious tugging and nagging that comes with the comforting warmth. Contrasting, yet connected.

There’s a lump in his throat, blocking his breath.

“I can feel you staring,” Morrison teases, and Reyes would have been startled by the sudden fracture in the silence if not for decades of training.

Always alert. Never let your guard down. But no training, no caution can shake the sensation of vulnerability coursing through his useless veins. He can only imagine how Morrison feels, only try to read the calm facade on his exposed face.

“Yeah,” he grumbles, “that’s kinda the point. Now shut up.”

Morrison chuckles again, a low sound from his throat, but says nothing. So Reyes’s eyes (more black and red than before) continue to scan the man’s face, taking in every detail, every familiar feature and new element, testaments to his history. His face is scarred from the bridge of his nose down, tough pink skin that had been shredded and ripped from the explosion all those years ago, burn marks that brand his face. The skin is rough, uneven, healed more in different places, dips and bumps and jagged borders adding to his wrinkles, the very tip of his nose missing and giving him a faint skull-like appearance. (Reyes almost smiles at that.  _ We can match, now, in a way. _ )

One more prominent scar runs from his forehead, between his eyes, down to the side of his mouth. Another running parallel a bit lower, through his mouth. A memory comes back, unwanted, bright and blinding.

So long ago. Yet so  _ real _ .

Reyes’s hand coming down with a knife across that face and leaving those gashes, never to be healed. His hand comes up to them, so much gentler than they had all those years ago, fingers instead of blades, tracing the same path, slower, barely making contact. Reyes bites his lip as he feels more emotions surface, and he freezes, holding the breath he barely needs.

“Fuck,” he lets out with a shaky exhale.

Morrison picks up on it, shifting his position ever so slightly as he brings a hand up to meet Reyes’s.

“Hey,” he says, “it was long ago.” He lowers Reyes’s hand with his, not quite holding it but rather holding his wrist. Gentle, not forceful.

It wasn’t an “it’s okay,” because they both know it’s not. But it’s enough.

“I…” Reyes whispers. He focuses his senses on the hand on his wrist. Grounding. And the apology is on his tongue, the apology for  _ this _ , the apology for  _ that _ , but it resists coming out no matter how hard he tries to force it.

“I know,” Morrison says, and it’s enough.

Reyes nods, taking a deep breath, pulling himself back together. He turns his attention back to the face of the man in front of him, eyes lowering, catching his mouth. He holds his breath for a moment, involuntary, before letting it out slow and steady.

He leans forward ever so slightly, eyes flickering back up only to come back down. Despite the scarring, Morrison’s lips still stand out, still morphed and grown over with harder tissue like the rest of his face but still there, familiar. Very familiar. The curve of them, the way the corners twitch upwards, the way they part when his grin widens…

Reyes looks away and leans back. If he still has the ability to blush, he sure is now.

Morrison’s smiling again. “Now,” he straightens his position ( _ fuck, he had been leaning in too _ ), “my turn.”

“What — ” Reyes stammers, but one of Morrison’s ungloved hands is on his face before he knows what’s happening. “You can see me with the visor on, can’t you?”

“Not really,” Morrison says, voice soft. “It’s...different. Only the minimum. Shapes, mostly. Can’t describe it.” He’s “looking” down, which Reyes is thankful for; even though he can’t see, having Morrison’s eyes pointed straight at him would be too much.

He stays still as Morrison explores his face, hyperaware of every touch, every stroke of his fingers. The hand is still on his wrist, he notices. Reyes takes a deep, slow breath, memories of their golden days returning, the nights they would lie in the dark and memorize each others’ faces through similar touch. His eyes flutter shut, focusing every sense on Morrison’s hand. Callused, rough, just like he remembered and yet so, so different.

“Not always like this,” Reyes mutters.

He stops, head tilts up. “What do you mean?”

His eyes open just a hair. “Technically dead. Can’t keep up the appearance forever.” He pauses, a twitch of a sad smile at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I should be glad you can’t see it at its worst.”

A breath. “Well,” Morrison whispers, “it all feels the same. Most of it, at least.”

Morrison’s hand has stopped moving and he’s brought the other one up, both resting on either side of Reyes’s head. Fingers resting where his neck meets his skull and playing with the thick curls that cover the area. Thumbs massage the delicate skin in front of his ear, warm skin on cold. So close to his throat. Open. Vulnerable. Yet the feeling of danger, the urge to run, the need to leave all utterly missing.

If his judgment is wrong, then it would be fine. Right here. Like this.

Morrison shifts again, bringing Reyes back to where he was. There’s something in his expression, something Reyes can’t place, thoughtful yet confused and conflicted. Brows furrowed ever so slightly, mouth in a straight line, hands going still. Then his expression softens.

“Gabe…” he whispers, even softer, quieter. Reyes’s breath stops, and he’s about to say something in reply but just can’t find the words so he instead closes the distance between them and presses their lips together.

It’s been so long. 

They part just a little, Morrison searching for approval, so Gabriel leans forward again to capture the soldier’s bottom lip. He remembers how it used to go, what they both like, the hours they would spend like this as young men, and he listens to the memories, lets them lead his actions. His hands come up onto Morrison’s shoulders, then up to his neck as Morrison’s drop down to his waist, pulling him closer. Both lost in the nostalgia, the feelings they used to wish would leave but are now thankful for.

And they pull away. Gabriel’s eyes open just a little, finding that familiar smile in front of him again. It’s infectious, spreading to his own face, nothing he can do to stop it.

“Missed you, too.”

* * *

They assign missions to them together, partially due to an ever-present lack of trust from the rest of the group, partially due to their history. At each other’s back, working in tandem, old memories of habits that faded with time until they went up in flames.

In the moment, it feels like nothing has changed, even though everything has. Fleeting dissociations, memories of fighting back to back with smirks on their faces and fire in their hearts, blasting rogue omnics, protecting each other. Teasing each other’s aim, bets on who could take down more, glances into each other’s eyes promising time together when the battle was over.

Brief. Reality always snaps them back, and it’s all different: occasionally fighting omnics but mostly Talon agents or other opposition. Their injuries and afflictions and constant reminders from the years that have passed, showing on Jack’s face and in Gabriel’s mind, emotions, actions. Unorganized combat, impromptu battles, never taken by surprise but not as prepared as they used to be. But the memories are good. Strengthening. Motivating. And the new is not bad.

They’re here now. Together again. Gone through so much. Regrets, anger, grief, sadness, years and years of pain and acceptance and now they’re back and they’re  _ here _ .

Lingering wishes as to how it could have gone. How it could be now. But no use in dwelling on what could have been.

Present. Moment.

The aftermath is new, too. They still find each other after, still take pride in their successes together then pull each other aside. It’s less intense, frantic, passionate; their post-mission interactions are softer, calmer, enjoying the other’s company and basking in silence. Grounding touches, making sure they are both there, both alive. Silent promises to never leave. Not again.

Jack goes through reports, visor on so it can feed him the words on the screen, not really seeing them but  _ knowing  _ them, having strings of letters run through his mind but still different from  _ sight _ . More like thoughts, but not his own. He still doesn’t know quite how it works and really does not care to. It’s useful, and that’s that.

The visor gets uncomfortable, though, so after the umpteenth page he lets himself remove it. He takes a deep breath and leans back in the chair as he sets the visor down, closing his eyes despite the lack of need. He stays like that for a moment, sitting in silence, the atmosphere of his room, drawing ragged breaths as he thinks of nothing.

Then footsteps behind him. Familiar footsteps. He smirks and hoists himself back upright.

“Tryin’ to work here,” he says, the smile audible in his voice.

“Didn’t look like it,” Gabriel says as he comes up. He leans over, resting his head on Jack’s left shoulder and wrapping his arms around him, hands clasped in front.

“Taking a two-minute breather. Nothing compared to  _ your _ breaks.”

Gabriel is silent, searching for something to say, and only comes up with “Shut up.” He nuzzles into the spot where Jack’s shoulder meets his neck, breathing in the familiar scent, tightening his arms. Deep inhale. Hold. Long exhale. Soft blue emanating from the screen, illuminating their forms in the dim room.

Jack relaxes into his embrace, leaning his head against the top of Gabriel’s and resting a hand on the man’s arm. His eyes are closed again, still enjoying the feeling of human touch after such a long  _ goddamn _ time. Still getting used to it.

It’s weird. He likes it.

Gabriel makes a sound, not quite a groan yet not a sigh, though still content. He, too, relaxes into Jack’s figure, still nuzzling his neck when he hears a chuckle from the old man.

“How intimidating.”

This time it  _ is _ a groan coming out of Gabriel’s mouth as he brings his head up to rest his chin on Jack. No verbal response, however. Jack smiles and brings the hand on Gabriel’s arm up to the side of his head, pulling him closer as he places a soft, lingering kiss on his temple.

“Don’t you have work to do?” he mutters, not pulling away. Again, only met with a groan. “Needy today, huh, Gabe?”

“I thought I stopped havin’ to hear that name from your white ass ages ago.”

“It’s actually coming from my mouth, I think.”

“Pendejo.” Not enough of an accent in Gabriel’s voice. Not enough.

“Still don’t know what that means, but at this point, I know it’s an insult. Besides,” he runs his fingers through short curls, “thought we resolved that ages ago.”

Gabriel sighs, but hugs him even tighter. “Whatever.”

Another mention of the past, another twinge of aching nostalgia, the distant memory of a playful argument, “ _ it’s Gabi, idiot” _ and the futile explanations to Jack’s smile on a face framed by pure blond hair. (Neither mentioning the fact that  _ you can’t speak it either, Gabriel, your parents never taught you, never gave you your culture or your language in an attempt to help you fit in that only excluded you more.  _ Only a few words and a story of an owl.) A  _ “can’t I call you that? Just me?” _ with an overly sweet voice and a slight cock of the head and the memory is so vivid to Gabriel that he is silent, still, before he is brought back, again, to the unexpected present.

Jack lets out a single huff of a laugh before placing another kiss on his cheek, then his lips. “Okay,  _ Gabby _ ,” he says whitely, “now I have to finish these.”

“Y’know, just. Nevermind.” Gabriel stands, grimace becoming a small smile as he heads off. “Don’t overwork yourself,  _ sunshine _ .”

He sees Jack react to the name again, just a small pause in movement before he waves him off, and Gabriel’s smile widens.

It’s been too long since he’s been able to smile like this.


	4. be

iv.

The days alternate, rocky to smooth to somewhere in the middle. An occasional cliff, then a stretch of flat land or rolling hills. A river that follows the path, the fork in the middle of it still slowly merging back together until it is one again. Obstructions and waterfalls and dams and fighting, yelling, before giving up and calming down and, for  _ once _ , talking it out. Frustration. Love. Anger. Adoration. Sadness. Gratitude.

The days turn to weeks, to months, to years. Their relationship evens out, their rivers flow back together, but their _ selves _ …

He can still fight. He has to. His duty. Despite his blindness (never an issue), his injuries (unavoidable), his ever-deteriorating state (natural, right?), Jack Morrison tells himself to  _ keep fighting _ . He has made it this far. Nothing else has stopped him. His history, his lifestyle is still apparent in the built muscle and strong bones. But nothing can last forever. 

Gabriel knows he shouldn’t be listening in to the conversation, but he has done a lot of things he knew he shouldn’t have been doing. So what’s one more? His ever-present affliction proved to be an advantage when the voices caught his ear, letting him stand behind the wall of the doorway to the med bay, ghostly and undetected.

“Jack,” comes the familiar, accented voice, “this is not a  _ suggestion _ .”

“What the fuck else am I supposed to do, then?”

The desperation is evident in Angela’s voice, hidden behind professionalism but slowly venturing into personal  _ care _ . “Reinhardt and Ana have already retired from combat and you are quickly approaching such a point, as well.”

“Approaching. Not there yet.”

“Considering the lasting effects from…” she pauses, impermanent punctuation like the blaze and rubble she remembers, “years ago, you are rapidly — ”

Jack scoffs, the bitterness not directed at her but at something  _ else _ . “Super soldier, remember?”

She takes a deep breath. A moment passes. Two. “It’s...it’s not like that, Jack. It’s like a drug high.” Footsteps, pacing. “Heightening performance, perhaps dragging it out a bit longer, but...” The crash is coming. She does not say it.

Silence. Gabriel can feel his fingernails digging into his palms, his eyes narrowing and brows furrowing as he takes in the information he already knew but did not want to accept. He knows Jack feels the same way right now.

A firework amongst candles. Brighter, stronger, only to go out immediately after.

“Look,” says Jack, “just...give me some time, okay?”

Angela huffs. “I do not understand,” she snaps, “why you insist on keeping up this ‘vigilante’ act…” her voice softens to almost a beg, “when you have all of  _ us _ .” She takes a deep breath, leveling her voice. “You have had us for a long time.”

“Not the same,” he grumbles. “But, fine. I can...take a remote command, or something. Part-time.”

Angela’s sigh this time is relieved, but still controlled, not all of the tension escaping in her breath, some still held in her lungs, constricting her breaths. “Thank you. I know it will be a hard transition.”

“Damn right. Like I said, Doc, part-time. I won’t stop going out in the field.”

Angela makes a sound as if she has something else to say, but stops. Enough progress for one conversation. She turns back to the lab, he stands and heads for the door, and Gabriel’s fists are still clenched, still digging in, and he doesn’t move.

Jack stops once he gets a few feet out the door, then turns his head to the side. His visor isn’t on, cloudy blue eyes staring at nothing still, but he walks with confidence, no worries of not knowing where he is going or whatever obstacles there may be. And, of course, he can still sense the small movements, small breaths of other people, other living things.

Gabriel may be dead, but he is no exception.

“You hear all that?” Jack asks.

“Yeah,” Gabriel says, seeing no point in lying.

Jack takes a deep breath, a saddened smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. “Just part of aging, I guess.”

Gabriel only watches as he strides off. Yes, he still walks with confidence, but with the unmistakable limp, minor and covered but a limp nonetheless, of age, of a deteriorating state, bones sore under pressure and joints grinding with movement. He watches until Jack is out of his sight. And, for a while, he does not move.

The “part time” remote command becomes a “full time” far too quickly; a battle, a lapse in stamina, pushing on but facing the consequences threefold afterwards. Jack Morrison has to come to the conclusion that, in the field, he’s more hindrance than help.

So he swallows his feelings, puts on a headset, and watches the battles from afar, Gabriel at his side.

“You should be out in the field with them.”

“Like hell, Jackie,” Gabriel says. _ Not without you. _

“I mean, that is what you bring to it,” Jack jokes, but the melancholy mood doesn’t lift. “You’re more use out there.”

Gabriel pulls up a chair and sits back, feet on the console next to them, head resting on the hands he has placed behind it. “Moral support.”

Jack doesn’t object. He just watches the screen (or whatever the visor-like thing is that gives him what’s on the screen but still isn’t seeing) and barks orders into the mic. Gabriel’s dark eyes fix on him, watching the little movements of the muscles in his face, the frowns and the concentration. More wrinkles than he remembers. Many more.

Still definitely a handsome face, though, Gabriel thinks to himself. He smiles. Still the same sharp features, even with the slightly sagging skin marked with history.

The battle is going decently. Not too hard, not too much risk, but not easy, either; Gabriel watches as Jack orders Lena — _ Tracer _ _ — _ to watch out for a mine. She doesn’t hear it in time, blasted into the side of a building, cheery voice reassuring them that she is okay but the pain and soreness make their way into her tone, words through strained teeth. Too soon after her last recall. She’d sustain that injury.

Eventually, the retreat is called. Jack tears off the headset with its visor, a growl escaping his mouth as he brings his fist down on the surface of the console.

Gabriel sits up. He doesn’t need to ask. It isn’t the incident itself, it isn’t just the battle, and he sees every frustration from the past weeks culminate in the air and suffocate the old commander until all he can do is struggle in their grasp.

“I could’ve helped — ” Jack huffs, voice soft, in contrast with his actions, but filled with emotion. “If I had been there — ”

Gabriel rests a hand on his shoulder. “Hey — ”

His hand is swatted off as Jack spins around. “Maybe if  _ you _ were there rather than sitting around doing nothing but watch my  _ useless _ ass — ”

“Jack,” Gabriel snaps.

Jack turns his head down and takes a few deep breaths. He sits back in the chair, hands running through what grey hair he has left. More wrinkles exposed, more skin falling loose off the muscle and weakened bone. More ragged breathing.

He tries to stand up, but stops and grunts in pain before sitting down. Gabriel leans forward, taking his shoulders and rubbing comforting circles with his thumbs.

“I know,” he whispers. His hands move up to cup Jack’s face, and he places a soft but lingering kiss on the man’s forehead. “I know.”

* * *

Two days later, Gabriel is gone.

Questions come. People asking Jack where he could be, if he knew about this, and he can only say no, he doesn’t know, he didn’t know. Every possibility runs through his mind, a train that cannot be stopped, only crashed at best. So he lets it keep going, trying to find a better conclusion. He’s fine.

Jack can’t quite figure out who the “he” in that sentence is.

One prevailing thought haunts him. He blocks it out, builds walls, but there is only so much he can take anymore, physically or mentally. He feels the wrinkles on his face, remembers Gabriel’s condition, remembers the breakdown from earlier, and can’t help but think that he’s gone for good.

Of course. Good things can only last for so long. And everyone gets tired of things that get old.

He lies in a too-empty bed at night, the other side of it far too cold, and focuses on sleep just so he can stop the thoughts that crumble his defenses and barrel into the forefront of his thoughts. If only the knot in his stomach would go away.

He would take the joint pain over this any day.

After another two days, he’s met with more anxiety, but differently. Waking up and sensing the familiar presence in the room, Jack grabs the top part of the visor from the nightstand, urgent and shaky. And there Gabriel sits in the corner of the room, on one of the old lounge chairs, staring at the ground and looking surprisingly...human.

“Where the  _ fuck _ were you?”

“Out.” Gabriel stands. Crosses his arms.

“Very informative.”

Gabriel sighs, less smoke coming out of his mouth than usual. “You were right, been awhile since I was out in the field. Not as much to keep me  _ going  _ anymore.”  _ (Not “alive.” Not quite.) _

There’s a silence, before Jack takes a deep inhale and speaks slowly, emphasizing every word.

“Gabriel. Where did you get the energy from.”

“Nothing you should worry about.”

“ _ Gabriel _ .”

“Look,” he says, defensive, “I can do it without killing them. Figured out how and shit.”

“Who were they?”

“Whatever assholes I found on the street — ”

“Innocent people, Gabriel?”

“Didn’t kill them! Besides, they weren’t the  _ best _ of — ”

“You still — ”

“Not like you haven’t done the same.”

Another silence blossoms, draping itself over them, over the furniture, around the walls and the ceiling.

“The fuck else am I supposed to do?” Gabriel finally asks. Voice low, only making a dent in the thick quiet.

Jack takes the part of the visor off, then runs a hand up his face and through his hair. “I know. I just...you scared the shit out of me, Gabriel.”

Gabriel stiffens. “What?”

Jack’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Thought you were gone for good.”

It takes Gabriel by surprise, takes a moment to process, to formulate a response.  _ No. God, no. Never. _

“What makes you think I’d do that?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Gabriel inhales sharply. “There was more to it than — ”

“Still tried to kill me. Almost  _ did _ .”

Gabriel adjusts his stance, square to face him, arms still crossed. “Have you  _ seen _ me? What that shitshow did to me?” He gestures to himself. “And you think you have it bad, that you have nothing to do with it, that you’re free from all blame?”

But Jack doesn’t retort. He only turns and walks towards the bed, then sits, staring blankly into the nothing as he usually does. His figure is limp, shoulders drooping as they have been for days. Weeks. Months.

“I’m tired, Gabriel. We’ve been over this.”

Gabriel sighs and sits next to him, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. “Jack.”

“Hmm?”

“I wouldn’t leave you. Not now. And never will again.”

This spread of silence is pleasant, the words lingering, before it’s broken by an all-too-familiar snicker.

“You’re still a sap,” Jack says, and Gabriel is relieved to hear the familiar smile in his voice.

“In fact,” Gabriel adds with a straight face, “I’m almost  _ insulted  _ you’d think I’d leave.”

“Well, you sure wouldn’t wanna miss out on this,” Jack says, gesturing to the whole of himself.

Gabriel gives a mocking thoughtful groan. “Nah, not much to miss there, sunshine.”

“Still used the nickname.”

“Fuck you.” But he still smiles.

A moment passes. Jack’s tone takes a more serious turn.

“You really that set on stickin’ around?”

Taken aback. “‘Course I am, idiot. Be with you when you’re on the goddamn deathbed.”

“That a promise?”

“Damn right.”

“Y’know, sounds an awful lot like ‘til death do us part…’”

Gabriel blinks. Smiles.

He won’t argue with that.

* * *

 

Duty calls, life calls, but they return to the room that night, an island of familiarity in the ever-changing sea of their days. Clothes stripped and changed, bed shared, lying facing each other and lingering in their own separate thoughts. 

No sounds but their breathing in the shared quarters, small but just big enough for the two of them. A digital clock emits a soft blue glow, its face blinking every minute, changing the light just barely. Jack’s hand finds Gabriel’s face again, which he leans into, eyes closing as he focuses on the contrast between a soft touch and callused fingers. The hand explores his face as usual, every dip and scar, every memorable feature, the same face on a very, very different man.

“You know,” Jack says with amusement, “you sure do still look young.”

“You can’t even see,” Gabriel mumbles.

“I don’t need to.” His hand continues exploring, down to the junction between his ear and his neck, places he already knows by heart. “You know what I mean.”

“Can’t really age when you’re like me,” Gabriel opens his eyes, “though what  _ does _ happen to me is...much worse.”

“Hey, you’re still alive,” Jack chuckles. “We probably look like quite the pair, old man like me and a young punk like you.”

“Even before...this, I wasn’t that young.”

“Still looked it. Must be the blood.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees, “you aged like  _ shit _ , gringo.” His eyes flutter closed again as he releases a slow, quiet exhale. “I still look dead, so, think we’d look pretty weird anyway.”

“Oh, well.” Jack gives as close to a shrug as he can manage in his position. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Think it’s too late to get married?”

Gabriel’s eyes snap open and he props himself up on his elbow. “ The fuck? ” he spits, eyes narrowing.

Jack laughs, though the strain on his lungs leads him to a few coughs. “Relax, it was just a question.”

“A lot of things can be ‘just a question,’ idiot.”

“Too heavy for you?”

Gabriel Reyes no longer has a heartbeat, but if he did, he knows it would be going wild. He stares for another minute before lying back down. “No, just...taken by surprise.” He thinks over the idea in his mind, tries to picture it, but stops when his non-existent pulse starts figuratively picking up again.

“Doesn’t really mean anything at this point,” Jack says, “forget I asked.”

“No — ” Gabriel says, “shit, I mean, I’m not  _ opposed _ to the idea.”

“Oh, Gabe,” Jack mocks, “still an ‘ol romantic.”

“Shut the hell up.”

Jack smiles and pulls Gabriel’s chin up, pressing a short kiss to his lips, feeling the tiny pout there. “Whatever you say, pumpkin.”

“Ugh,” Gabriel groans and rolls away, “you’re too old for saying that.”

“Technically, you’re ‘round the same age I am.”

Gabriel rolls back to face him. “Which would be?”

“Sixty-five for me. So that places you at sixty-six.”

“Jesus, we’re old.”

More quiet falls over them, yet neither of them sleep. The clock still provides a hint of light, enough to show the scars on Jack’s face, the discolored skin and the change in texture that reflects the light differently. More cover his arm, long lines and old bullet wounds that have long since healed into star-like shapes. Gabriel brings a finger up to Jack’s arm, tracing one of the scars on his hand; it’s one of the newer ones, one that had not been there before they became who they are today, before they spoke again as different people. The next one his finger lands on is from somewhere between those periods, those years they spent apart, despising and missing one another, still alive yet still dead.

His finger finds a bullet scar on Jack’s upper arm, and it takes him a moment to realize something is off. All the scars tend to blend together from a distance, too many for any to stand out. But now, here, in front of him, under his finger, Gabriel feels that is is softer, a slightly pinker shade than the others. New. Another sits not far from it, and Gabriel’s eyes squint in the darkness as he lingers on them. The newer scars have been healing a lot slower than they should.

He moves on, up to Jack’s face, and the man smiles when he feels the hand on his chin, up to his forehead. Gabriel traces down the scar in the middle of his face, between his brows, over his nose, and he stops. 

And the memory is back. It never leaves, it shows up every time, and  _ god _ he would hate it if it weren’t for all the other emotions it brings at once.

Still so much more vivid than the other memories of the time, full color like a movie and every detail etched into his mind yet still somehow blurry and frantic and everywhere at once. An emotional impression, violent splatters of bright color instead of blurred black-and-white lines. Back before Gabriel had the claws on his gloves, before he became who he is, holding a knife in his hand as the fight escalates and the walls rumble around them. Back to when he brought it down on Jack, slicing fault lines into his face, the blood and the brief delay before Gabriel found himself on the ground with the knife ripped away from him before everything fell apart —

“Hey.” Jack’s voice tears him from the memory, pulls him up from the depths for air. “It’s okay.”

Gabriel notices the vague wetness on his face, tears falling to the side and onto the pillow. “I — ”

“Shh.” Jack’s hand finds the back of Gabriel’s head, tangling themselves into the curls and pulling him closer.

Unspoken understanding. Quiet comfort. Routine in the face of recurring remembrance. It only gets worse with the years.

Jack’s voice keeps reeling him in, keeps him up, knowing never to let go again.

“You know,” Jack whispers, “how long I blamed myself?”

Gabriel pulls away to look up at him. “What?”

“For everything. The fall of it all, bringing us down, the explosion...who we are now.” He chuckles sadly. “I did everything I could to pin the blame somewhere else, anywhere but me, tried to find any other explanation. But I always came back around to hating myself.”

Gabriel bolts up. “Why are you telling me this?”

Jack follows. “So you know you aren’t alone.”

“No,” Gabriel insists, “it’s different, you didn’t cause nearly as much shit as I did — ”

“Gabe.”

“I’m the one that ruined everything — ”

“ _ Gabriel _ .” When he goes quiet, Jack continues. “We were both at fault. But it’s all in the past.” Another sad smile shows up on his face. “Can’t say I don’t hate myself to this day for it, though.”

Gabriel nearly objects again, but stops when he realizes Jack’s the one crying now. Only a few tears, face trying to stay together. Gabriel brings his hand up to wipe one away then brings his lips to Jack’s, soft and slight and lingering.

_ So you know you aren’t alone. _

“Then let’s hate ourselves for it together,” he whispers.

“Always a ray of sunshine, aren’t ya?”

“Isn’t that supposed to be you?”

“I suppose.” Jack leans his forehead against Gabriel’s, hand finding the back of his lover’s neck and caressing the skin behind and below his ear. “Wanna know something else?”

“Mm?”

“I was so close to asking you to come back.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Gabriel’s mouth. “After you helped me those times… Couldn’t let go of the thought.”

Gabriel mulls it over. “Even after everything? All the shit I tried to do to you?”

“Even after that, somehow. Like some lovestruck schoolboy.” He sighs. “I missed you, Gabe.”

Gabriel scoffs. “You were a huge idiot, then.”

“Hey, you still came back before I even said anything. Glad you did before I had to beg.”

“Woulda been weird,” Gabriel jokes, “but also satisfying.”

Jack chuckles again. “Hey?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

And it’s not like he hasn’t heard it before, not like he hasn’t heard it since they started again. It still hits him, still twists his guts in the best ways, still brings warmth to a body that should remain cold. 

Not like Jack could ever know how much of an effect it has. Never.

“You’re gross.” Gabriel lies back down, shutting his eyes. “Love you too,” he mumbles, playing it off as less than it is. ( _ And deep down, there’s always something wrong with those three words, a sad sensation that he doesn’t want to acknowledge, yet the movement of his mouth every time he replies stirs up the bittersweet taste he so wants to ignore. _ )

He speaks again. “‘Night, sunshine.”

“What was that?” comes Jack’s reply.

A groan. “You heard me just fine.”

Silence.

“Actually,” Jack whispers, and doesn’t need to finish.

“Oh.”

Right.

The hearing is diminishing, too.

Gabriel cracks an eye open and looks up at him. “Said ‘night, sunshine.”

Jack smiles. “‘Night to you, too.”

He feels Jack’s hand push some of his hair back before the man lies down next to him. Then hears a groan, a small sound of pain and a hesitation in Jack’s movement, a reminder that Gabriel does not want to think about. He understands the pain, what with his constant state of deterioration, but with Jack…

The age. Something Gabriel cannot understand any longer. And he knows Jack should still be fine, should still have years left, but part of Gabriel can’t help but fear that one of these nights, he will wake up—

And Jack won’t.


	5. were

v.

Death is something inevitable. Unavoidable. A beginning has to have an end, a birth always leads to a death, and everything in the middle is done with the thought of life’s last stop weighing in the back of one’s mind. Feared but natural, the terror of the unknown for some and a subtle, constant comfort for others. One thing everyone knows will happen, the knowledge dealt with differently by culture. Some celebrate, others cover it up, refuse to acknowledge their inescapable fates.

But once one is dead, they are dead, not around to worry about it, unable to mourn themselves. A return to lack of existence, back to wherever they were before they came to be. Or perhaps there is an afterlife. Perhaps a better place, or perhaps worse. No way to know. Not now. But the natural path of existence will always lead to the answers. For most, that is.

Death is something inevitable. Unavoidable. But not for some.

The fear of the end has always led people to thoughts of immortality. Wishing they could stop their aging, stay the same, experience everything far into the future and never stop existing. Stories and legends of gods, immortal monsters and beings, historical quests for the secrets of eternal life to cope with the unseen and ever-present.

How stupid they all are.

It’s a terrible fate, Gabriel knows. Unchanging, not aging as everything, everyone around him grows old and will, eventually, die. A detachment, a lack of a fundamental human experience.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe, now, he’s lost any humanity he may have had.

Time never passes for him, days never seem to go by, the him from a year ago no different from the him now.

 _(Most people change constantly, never the same, the person they were before ceasing to exist upon new experiences. No one is the same twice._ So maybe he really isn’t a person.)

Yet at the same time, it goes too quickly, he loses track, a week and a month and a year and a decade passing by in the blink of an eye, and he is always different without noticing it himself.

Never changing, never static. Dead, but conscious. A living contradiction.

He visits the same room every day, the same bed, seeing the same face that can’t see him. The enhancement program took years away rather than adding, too much strain for too much power, taking time for stolen strength. Now Jack hardly moves from what has essentially turned into a hospital bed.

He can still move around, still stand and walk, still tried to make something of his time, but as more time passes he has done so less and less.

Gabriel stays in the doorway, watching the scene in front of him. Lena sits in a chair next to the bed, all giggles and laughter lines, a slight rasp at the edges of her voice from age and a sullenness at the edge of her cheer from experience. Still happy, still full of life, ignoring the impending loss of another friend. _(A year after Reinhardt, the wound still healing and scarring.)_

Her words don’t make it to Gabriel’s ears, just her smile, her eyes framed by crow’s feet and her face framed by hair more grey than brown. Jack looks at her, not seeing her, of course, but facing her out of habit, out of comfort, focusing on where the lilting voice is coming from. His face hasn’t quite caught up to his body, still old and wrinkled and sagging yet not telling of the state his body is in. The face of a retired soldier, not of a broken old man who can barely walk anymore, a man who can only sit and wait for death.

Lena’s warm eyes flit over to the doorway, but Gabriel is already gone.

Navigating familiar halls again, passing time with nothing but his own thoughts and the reverberations through the walls. He bites his tongue, bites back his emotions and lowers his gaze to the ground. He walks with a purpose he is not aware of.

Then stops. In a break room, or a lounge, or a living room, whatever it is. He stops, and figures out where he is. He stops, and takes a deep breath, and sits himself down on the ratty old couch as he maneuvers through the tension in his sort-of-muscles and the anxiety in his sort-of-brain.

He hears the familiar, lightweight steps coming before Lena plops down on the other end. “Disappeared on us, ey?”

Gabriel doesn’t open his eyes. “Saw me?”

“‘Course I did. And he knew you were there. Always does. Shoulda stuck around, I been tellin’ him ‘bout how Hana’s visiting again.”

“Oh, is she?” He hears her through a tunnel, relies on instinct to reply, but she goes on as she would in any conversation.

“Yeah! It’s been a while, though I know she’s been doin’ a whole lotta good out there, but I’ve…”

Lena keeps talking, word after word spilling out of her mouth and hardly making it to Gabriel’s ears. By that time, they’ve been tangled and morphed into nothing but familiar background noise, a small comfort, and Gabriel pretends to listen.

Hana arrives a few days later. Or maybe a week. Or maybe two. It’s as if she’s been gone for decades while also never having left, an odd extra presence in the base yet fitting in seamlessly, melding into daily routine without the bat of an eye. Yet Gabriel stays away, not consciously but finds his feet taking him in a different direction when he hears her laugh down the halls, or he just stays in his room, or with Jack when no one else is around, or leaves and wanders until an unknown force pulls him back like a magnet.

The run-in is still unavoidable. Spacing out as he walks, then finding himself in their equivalent of a living room. Old furniture, slightly beaten walls, updated tech on the television and gaming systems that hardly anyone else ever touches, nearly anachronistic at this point. They aren’t on, but he still hears the unmistakable beeping of video games and the slosh of neon-colored sodas before the laughter and exclamation of pride.

She sees him standing in the doorway and sets the handheld device down. Her smile is still so uniquely _her_ , her mouth forming a genuine grin of familiarity and excitement with her eyes narrowing into that smug gaze that warned anyone of the impending teasing.

Familiar expression on a familiar face with unfamiliar features. The wrinkles near her eyes and beside her mouth deepen with the smile, bags under her eyes apparent, wavering lines on her pink tattoos. All subtle, probably thanks to the Korean blood, but still undoubtedly there.

Gabriel wishes he hadn’t run into her.

She’s lying on the couch, an arm tucked behind the head on the armrest. “You’ve barely said hi to me since I got here!” she accuses with a giggle. “Didya somehow get broodier since I last saw you?”

“You’re still playing those things, I see,” Gabriel says, nodding at the game device.

She glances at it. “‘Course I am. I’m offended you’d think I’d stop.” She sits up and picks it up again. “Still streaming, too, before you ask. Girl’s gotta please the masses. Not doin’ the competitions, though, that’s for the, ugh, _youngsters_.”

He feels a smile try to make its way onto his face. “They’re still into watching you?”

She shrugs. “Everyone’s gotta love a MILF. And one that saved the world, tee-bee-aych.” She tries not to laugh at her own language.

“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what that first one means.”

She laughs again and leans back to gain momentum before rocking forward and standing up, then walks over to the TV set and bends down. Gabriel watches as she turns the console on, startup noises reverberating around the room. She straightens her back and spins around on one leg, holding a controller out with another smirk on her face.

Less friendly this time.

“Been too long, _gramps_.”

It isn’t until he hears and processes the nickname that he smiles, walks forward, and agrees.

* * *

 

“—and she utterly destroyed me, not like I expected anything less.” Gabriel leans back in the couch in Jack’s room, Jack’s hand in his as he strokes it absentmindedly. The man is curled up next to Gabriel, head resting between neck and shoulder, edges of their bodies melding perfectly.

“I don’t know how she and Oxton still got so much energy,” Jack mumbles.

Gabriel scoffs. “Don’t gotta call our kids by their last names, Jackie.”

Jack laughs, a short, fragile, breathy sound. “Oh, is that what they are?”

“Have been for a while.” He takes a deep breath. “Anyways, could say the same for you, Jack. Gettin’ yourself all the way over to the couch.”

“What can I say? Feelin’ spry.” Tired. His tone is muffled, raspy, like he never gets enough sleep.

He will soon.

Gabriel stops the thought right there.

Time passes, Jack’s eyes close, movements go stiller. Gabriel would panic if it weren’t for the regular, if not slightly shaky movements of breathing. He, too, closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before relaxing into the couch. He pulls Jack closer, nuzzling his face into the receding white hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and stays there, inhaling the familiar scent. Familiar, constant, but everything has to change.

The years get to everyone else, build up, show on their faces, ticking clocks on their lives as they follow the natural path. And he can only watch. Only watch as it happens to everyone around him, their time growing shorter, their bodies growing older.

Everyone except one other person.

* * *

 

He knocks on the doorframe despite the door to Angela’s lab being open. She’s alone, hunched over a computer with an expression as “focused” as it could get. It never changed much.

She looks up. “Yes, Reyes?”

He walks in and slams the door shut, steps firm and measured, arms at his sides and hands clenched.

“Help him.” Two words, two eyes meeting two of hers.

She looks confused for a moment. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Don’t bullshit me, _Ziegler_ , I know you can.”

Angela lets her attempt of a facade down. She exhales, too-manicured fingers pushing her too-blonde hair back. “Gabriel…”

“I know he’s old as all fuck already but there’s gotta be something, I know there is.”

Her desk is facing the side, so she pushes the hovering chair away and turns to face him. She gestures to another chair, this one firmly on the ground. Gabriel only takes another step forward.

She doesn’t stand, only rests her hands in her lap, back straight. “You know this is not something I want for people.”

“Oh _really_?” Gabriel spits. “Then look at us.”

“You weren’t—you were just supposed to be—”

“An _experiment_? Just to see if it worked? I fucking know, and look how incredibly that turned out.” He exhales sharply, bitterly. “Worked just fine for you, though.”

“I wanted better for you, Gabriel.” Her voice is still too soft, too light, a pretty picture framed by the accent, simultaneously harsh and soft. “We have been over this.”

“You get my point. Whatever you did to yourself, tried to do to me, use it for him.”

She sighs, eyes fluttering closed again, long eyelashes batting her cheek. “That is not how it should be used.”

“You’re a fucking _doctor_. You’re supposed to help people.”

“If death is running its course in such a way,” she says, voice level, “it should not be interfered with. I only use a similar ability in battle or if death comes too soon. In situations where it is unfair and unnecessary. To interrupt, not...reverse.” They both know how the latter turned out.

“What makes you think you can draw the line between this ‘unfair’ and ‘natural’ bullshit?”

“Morrison is dying of old age, it cannot get more natural than that—”

“What about other situations then?” he interrupts. “Do you turn fifty and suddenly your heart disease is ‘natural’ but it isn’t at forty-nine? If a kid’s born with something that kills ‘em quickly, is that fucking _natural_? Is that something you let happen? What makes you think you can decide?”

She struggles for an opening. “There are many grey areas, yes—”

“No fucking _shit,_ doc.”

Angela sighs, standing to meet him. “The point here is that Jack’s condition is unquestionable.”

“The enhancement program chopped years off of him,” Gabriel retorts, “is that _fair_?”

“It’s still age—”

“Sorry that it’s more complicated than you’re willing to consider.” His voice is saturated with acid, dripping from the edges as his eyes burn holes in the woman in front of him.

And yet she still stands, no injuries on her flawlessly fake skin. Her brows furrow, stretching out parts of her face and wrinkling others like an ill-fitted mask. Strengthened porcelain frames the glass that stares at Gabriel then flickers to the side in thought. Her face betrays none of her thoughts, only the mere fact that she’s thinking. It could be worry, confusion, pride, acceptance. All the same.

She turns back to face her desk, setting her hands on it and leaning her weight forward. The desk creaks. Or maybe it’s her bones. Someday, the skin covering them will stretch too far, tear, expose her.

Frankly, Gabriel cannot wait.

_(Know how I feel. Know how it is for me. We’re abominations already, you and I.)_

“Are you familiar with the valkyrie mythos?” she asks. Her voice is quieter. She turns her head up, but not to look at him, only straight at the wall in front of her.

He almost doesn’t want to humor her with an answer. “Can’t say I am,” he says anyway. “Some sorta fucked up monster or some shit?”

She lets out a brief laugh charged with _something_. Gabriel can’t place it. But it isn’t a positive laugh, that’s for sure.

“They are the women that choose the fates of those in battle,” she explains, “half and half, who survives and who is slain.” She finally pushes herself off the desk and turns to him again. “There’s a reason I chose their image for myself.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow. “You’re just admitting how twisted you are.”

“I’m explaining,” she contradicts, “that such measures are necessary. I _wish_ there were a way to make it universally black and white. People always have to die, it’s just a matter of choosing whom.” She sighs. “And the afterlife the fallen soldiers go to is not a bad one.”

“Yeah, well, there is no afterlife,” Gabriel says, “so fuck that.”

“Depends on what you believe.” She meets his eyes, no fear in their shine. “And you may want to get yourself together before you leave.”

Gabriel freezes in confusion before looking down at his hands. Grey, ashy, bone and tendons showing through. His head whips to the side towards a metal cabinet, polished enough to serve as a mirror if not a bit warped. Not that it would make a difference.

The anger from earlier ate through his human facade, leaving only the vague shape of a man. Smoke, black and grey, blurred at the edges, exposed teeth that are too long, too sharp, and eyes that are too red, too bright, glowing more than eyes should. Many of them, large and small, trailing off with smoke. He recoils at the sight of himself, not unfamiliar with it but always unnerved. He turns square to his reflection, taking a closer look. Rotting skin, if it can even be called that. Flaking off. Evaporating into more of the grey before it can even hit the ground. He blinks. Countless eyes blink back.

He doesn’t know when exactly this happened; Angela had not so much as flinched.

“Look at yourself,” she says flatly, “this is what happened to you. Would you wish this upon anyone else?”

“Thought this only happens when you try to bring ‘em back. I’m just asking you to stop it before it happens. ‘S what you do, right?”

“I stop the immediate cause, old age would only come back, I’d have to grant immortality… That’s what you shouldn’t wish upon others.”

“Don’t you dare forget that _you’re_ the one that _did this_ to _me_ .” His words come slowly, too much reverb in his voice that he had not noticed moments before. Like his old voice. _Reaper’s_ voice. He turns his head to look at her.

She adjusts her position, stands up straight, looks around the room for something, _anything_ other than him before speaking. “I know,” she says. Is that actual _shame_ in her voice? Too hard to tell. Always too hard to tell. “And I’m sorry.”

He chuckles, a dark, mirthless sound. “Worked just fine for you.”

“It was tailored to me. I was too desperate, too rushed when I tried it on you. And it’s not like my state is perfect.”

“You can still die,” he says, “can still take a piercing through the heart and have it all end. Things can still _kill you_.”

She takes a moment. “It’s complicated.”

“Which means you have nothing to say.” He focuses on reforming, looking at himself again. “You say you can’t fuck with the natural order, but look at what you did to us. Did to _me_.”

“And I have learned.”

“Yeah, used me as a guinea pig to learn for personal gain.”

Her brows lower, eyes narrowed. “I use it to help. I don’t bring people back anymore, no matter how much I care, not those who are dead, only from _fatal injury_ _—_ ” There’s a break in her voice, a crack in porcelain, and if not for his anger Gabriel would have noticed that her insistence was not directed at _him._

“So, if they would die anyway. I don’t see the difference between that and already dead.”

She sighs, face returning to the plastic blankness. “This conversation is going nowhere. If you are done, I’d like to go back to my work.”

He makes a show of glaring at her, eyes back to looking mostly human. “Whatever, _doc_.”

Gabriel walks towards the door, turning the handle and pushing it forward. A step out. Then a voice from behind him.

“Gabriel,” she says. Softer. Quieter. “I talked to him about it.”

He freezes. He listens. He doesn’t turn around. She continues.

“Brought it up, and he said no, absolutely not.” She chuckles, a sad little thing in the silence. The facade is gone, somehow, letting the vulnerability seep into her voice, the human feelings, the confliction. Gabriel almost wants to see her face now.

“Oh?” is all Gabriel can supply.

“He’s accepted it long ago. Since Switzerland.”

“And why didn’t you say this sooner?”

She tries to correct her tone, put her barriers back up. “There were underlying issues in your request, and I didn’t want you to go bothering _him_ about it.”

More silence. Only seconds, but nearly infinite. Then he leaves, pushing the door open, letting it swing closed.

Before it closes fully, he can hear her add one more thing. ( _Another fracture in the mask. One fault line between her eyes, one down and across her lip._ )

A soft whisper, directed at no one.

“Jack has wanted death for a long time.”

* * *

 

Gabriel stalks back to his room. Selfish. Jack Morrison is fucking _selfish_ , wishing for death like that. He has people who want him around, people who fucking _need_ him, and he makes no effort to even _try_ to stay alive?

Asshole. Absolute piece of shit. Gabriel loves him too goddamn much.

He makes it to his room and tries his best not to cry.

(His best doesn’t work.)

* * *

 

He looks up valkyries later out of unfortunate curiosity. He sees something about them choosing who they wish to die, then manipulating the battle accordingly. Putting effort into making sure they perish. Assisting those they wish to live. Bias. Their own whims.

Gabriel doesn’t check how true it is. It’s already too much.

He decidedly hates valkyries.

* * *

 

Not a day goes by where Gabriel is not by Jack’s side. He sits with him, curls up next to him in bed, talks to him while stroking his hair then whispers as he falls asleep. Careful, as if sudden movements would break him. Jack is a hardened soldier, still evident in his appearance, but there is no ignoring the air of frailty surrounding him, seeping into the atmosphere.

“R’member,” Jack mumbles, “that one time durin’ the crisis? West Africa mission?”

Gabriel smiles. “The one where I got my shit wrecked?”

“Mhm.” Sleep seeps its way into his voice, but Jack continues. “Fretted over you like there was no tomorrow.”

“Almost was none, for me.”

“Yeah.” He adjusts his position, pushing himself closer to Gabriel. They’re in bed, lights off, facing each other and close enough to feel the other’s breathing. “I think that was when I knew I was disgustingly in love with you.”

Laughter decorates the edges of Jack’s voice, and Gabriel is taken aback by the sudden cheesy bluntness before he bursts into an uncontrollable snicker, snort and everything.

“As I was bleeding out?” Gabriel asks. _Must be the lack of sleep on his part._

“Maybe a lil’ after that,” Jack says, louder this time, “I was a little stressed in the moment.”

“Just a little?”

“Only slightly worried.”

“Sure looked slightly worried, running over like that.”

“Had to make sure my teammate was okay. You know how it goes.”

“Sure.” Gabriel smiles and brings a hand up to cup Jack’s cheek. “Get some sleep, sunshine.”

And he does. Gabriel hears his love’s breathing slow down, checking to make sure it still _remains_ before letting himself drift off, too.

Hoping Jack is still there in the morning.

* * *

 

“Jackie?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s go somewhere. Been a while.”

Silence. “I’d love to, Gabe, but…”

Gabriel waits. Jack continues.

“Kinda can’t anymore.”

Oh.

More silence. Seconds passing.

Wheelchair (never used, doesn’t get out of bed), frequent medication (who knows what they’re giving him), constant supervision (just in case).

“...Right.”

* * *

“Not much longer left.” Gabriel has heard the words said repeatedly over the weeks, months, years. Yet each time, the “not much longer” grows ever shorter.

There is no denying just how short it has gotten. The heart monitor beeps, a rhythmic constant in the room, slowly ticking down the time, the light of the blue lines flickering and always catching the eye, grabbing its attention, making sure no one forgets.

Jack stirs, slowly waking again, and Gabriel straightens in his seat.

“Gabe?”

“I’m right here, Jack.” He leans forward, taking both of Jack’s hands in his.

Jack smiles, eyes fluttering shut again. “Good. Jus’ checkin’.”

“I’m always here.” One hand comes up to stroke Jack’s hair again before he places a kiss on his forehead. “Always have been. Always will be.” One-sided.

Jack hums in approval. “Thank you.”

“Of course, sunshine.”

It’s the last time the word falls from his lips.

* * *

 

He has to leave, one day.

It’s too much. The frustration, the sadness, the anger, the grief. Bottled up as he sits in the room, listening to the constant beeping of machines and heartbeat, a heartbeat like the one he doesn’t have. He storms out of the room, the hall, the building. Some poor tree takes the brunt of his feelings.

Gabriel Reyes walks. And keeps walking. Shadowsteps through the forests, lets it take him wherever it does, lets it tear him apart. ( _Not like he can feel it anymore._ ) Loses track of where he is, how far he’s gone, how much time has passed. He collapses eventually. Curls up. Tears fall. _Pathetic_.

Pathetic how he’s reacting. Pathetic how dependent he is.

It shouldn’t be this way. Nothing should be this way. But it is, and nothing can change it, but _god_ if he doesn’t hold on to some hopeless semblance of hope.

Hope that it can all change. Hope that he’ll go back and everything will be okay. Hope that will never be fulfilled, and he knows it, yet he desperately holds on.

It takes hours to calm down, to pull himself back together, thankful no one had to see it.

Deep breath he doesn’t need.

He starts to go back.

Tries to walk. Gets lost. Shadowsteps again. This time, the pain is more apparent. The ripping, the disintegrating, molecules and atoms torn apart to move faster to one place and anything faster is good right now, anything to get him back before he can change his mind and hide away forever. He can’t do that. Not yet. Jack needs him.

And so he returns. But something is different. He can’t place it, and maybe it’s just the residual effects of his breakdown, but _something_ is off. He slows down when he enters, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets as he looks around.

Something is definitely wrong. He has a feeling he knows, and the fear creeps up. He shuts it down immediately. He hopes he’s wrong.

More hope that may never be fulfilled.

Angela is waiting for him, eyes widening when she sees him, hurrying over.

“I’ve been trying to find you—”

Shit. No. “Wasn’t around. Didn’t bring a comm.” His voice slows. “What…”

A silence falls. The room feels desolate, hardly even an ambiance to fill it. Withered white walls, black smoke wafting up from his body. He waits. Still.

No.

Angela looks away, takes a long blink, stares at the ground. And it finally hits him.

_No._

Time slows down, feeling leaves his body with a wave of ice, a fire in his mind.

Of course. Of fucking _course_ the universe does this, hates him that much, wants him to suffer even more than he already has.

Of course it was the one time he wasn’t there with him. And now he couldn’t return.

Fuck. No.

God.

_Why._

He pushes past Angela, running down the halls, the familiar route to Jack’s room. He has to get there. Angela must mean something different, it must be a misunderstanding—

He gets there, stopping himself by grabbing the doorway, letting it pull him back.

Everyone is there, or at least he thinks so; his eyes won’t focus for long enough. No more familiar sound, no rhythmic beep of the heart monitor, only the red glow from the flat line he doesn’t want to look at. A lot of things. A lot he doesn’t to look at. He doesn’t look in that one direction, towards the bed. He doesn’t dare. His eyes briefly meet Lena’s and Hana’s, Lena’s filled with tears and Hana’s somber, dull, a hand placed upon Lena’s back as they both look up at him in grief and pity.

They both look so much older than they already should.

Gabriel doesn’t enter the room. He takes off again. Doesn’t know where he’s going. Doesn’t matter.

It feels like nothing really does.


	6. was

vi.

An empty room, an empty bed. Should be familiar, but there is no sense of comfort, no familiarity. A digital clock with bright red numbers, mocking him with time. Reminder that he has too much.

Back from a mission, if it could even be called that. Reckless. Anyone else would be dead. Bullets and blades, nothing stuck. Not that he would ever do anything himself.

He knew how successful it would be, so no point in trying.

He remembers another conversation with _her_ . Asking to reverse it, to turn off whatever is keeping him alive to do something, anything to let him go but it’s too late, too integrated into him, _too many of her mistakes to try to correct_ so now she _can’t_ and _for once, he knows how she feels._

It’s hard for her, too. He could even say just as much, but difficult in different ways. ( _She wanted to keep this from happening, he knows now, she really did. He sees the pain in her eyes from not intervening, and acknowledgement that it would be a different kind of pain if she had. He isn’t sure how to feel about that. He ignores it._ )

Gabriel keeps a picture of himself and Jack by the bed because of course he does, he has to. He still has that memory, that flashback, the fight and the fire and the two scars down a face. It comes back, still. Sudden. Staring at scars too long. Parts of them died that day, but they had stayed alive in the end, and Gabriel used to be thankful.

For one of them, it was a missed last chance to die. For the other, it was only a delay.

Besides, now the Jack that lives in his memories is the only one he has.

Doesn’t matter what happens after death. Doesn’t matter if there’s an afterlife. Jack left, and Gabriel knows all too well that he can never follow.

He has everyone else, he knows that. But no matter what he does, what he tries, nothing can shake the dull ache of loneliness.

Inevitable.

Unavoidable.

Eternal.

* * *

  _“Be with you when you’re on the goddamn deathbed.”_

_“That a promise?”_

_“Damn right.”_

_(Not all promises can be kept.)_

A brief “is,” now an endless “was.”

fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are so, so appreciated.
> 
> and thank you.


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